100 Days Without You
by TheLonelyAmerican
Summary: ...To remember the hundred that was./ The life of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were amazing...while it lasted. Both post and pre-TRF. Ranging from drabbles to one-shots. 100 drabble challenge.
1. Introduction

**100 Days without You…**

…_To remember the 100 that was. _

Challenge 1: Introduction

He had been looking for a flat mate. Someone who would help pay rent and keep him company. After all, he really didn't want to go back to Harry.

John had decided early on that he didn't want someone who lived in a mess or who would keep a bunch of animals.—(Especially if they were dead. John had seen enough of _dead _for one lifetime.)

But it turns out, that John didn't get what he wanted. Sherlock was the opposite of what he had thought he needed.

Even so, after a week, John wouldn't leave Sherlock for the world.


	2. Complicated

**100 Days Without You…**

…_To remember the 100 that was. _

Challenge 2: Complicated (or the uncomplicated new life)

Between all the murder cases, serial chasings, and almost dying, John rarely had time to simply relax and watch the telly. The few precious moments he had would almost always be interrupted by Sherlock, a client, or someone _else _who wanted either the detective or the doctor dead.

It was strange, that after expecting the unexpected, he was finally sitting down without interruption. The quiet hum of electricity felt deadly in the room. John took a deep breath, trying to relax.

John sighed. Of course, he'd never be relaxed without Sherlock there.

And of course, Sherlock wasn't there. Not anymore.


	3. Making History

**100 Days Without You…**

_…To remember the 100 that was._

Challenge 3: Making History

It started with the blogs; not John's, but other blogs that old clients had. At first, it might have been a simple name, or a mention of the great Sherlock Holmes. But after time, it was more. Blogs spoke of him more often, and newspapers spilled with his name

_Sherlock Holmes._

John had been delighted, Sherlock less so. "It will turn on us," he had muttered when John brought it up. John, as usual, didn't see what Sherlock saw.

Now, the newspapers no longer spoke of brilliance, but of _fraud_.

And to think, they were actually making history at first.


	4. Rivalry

**100 Days Without You…**

…_To remember the 100 that was. _

Challenge 4: Rivalry

Jim Moriarty was a spiteful person. In the second grade, he had drowned his best friend in the public pool because he had said that Jim couldn't kill people. They had initially been arguing over video games.

Anyone who crossed him quickly learned their lesson.

But then there was _Sherlock Holmes_: the only one who could even begin to match his intelligence. If he defeated Sherlock, he would be _immortal _in legends. If he defeated Sherlock Holmes, he would be _immortal_ in legends.

The greatest rivalry had started.

That rivalry had killed him, in the end.

It was worth it.


	5. Unbreakable

**100 Days without You…**

_…To remember the 100 that was._

_(A/N: Sorry for the wait, but I like to take weekends off! Thank you to all my reviewers and readers. It means so much to me that there are people out there who will read my work. _

_Also, this isn't a drabble, and is instead a ficlet. You can expect actual one-shots and so on, in the future. This is just so I can get my writer's block out of my system, and start to write again...)_

Challenge 5: Unbreakable

The effects of Sherlock's death were amazing. Newspapers screamed his name even more so the before, and the British Government was silent for at least a week. Talking about the death of the detective seemed to cause a certain chill in the air, as if something, or someone, was watching them.

Lestrade, Anderson, and Donovan didn't show up in office for several weeks. When they did return, it was with a hollow look in their eye and graceful movements that were deemed fake. Many of the people who knew Sherlock looked like this.

Other people took the news differently. Some people exploded with anger from the accusations of their old friend. (Sherlock would argue with that status.) They started the Movement, an organization that continued to believe in the consulting detective.

One man, an old client called Henry Knight, seemed to show up everywhere. He was one of the more well-known representatives of the Movement. He was the one who showed up for interviews, saying, "If Sherlock Holmes really did set up everything with this entire Moriarty fellow, then fine. But there isn't a single way he could've faked knowing what he did 'bout me. Even if he faked everything, he didn't fake his genius."

Henry and the Movement encourage others. Friends would meet under darkened skies, and they would use a small bottle of yellow spray paint to coat the walls of London with their slogan. _Sherlock Holmes was real, _or _Moriarty was real, _sometimes even _Richard Brook is a lie. _

The police were determined on catching the offending culprits, but it seemed that they weren't really trying.

Perhaps the most recognizable leaders of the Movement were the citizens who would look at the posters and graffiti, muttering to themselves and to the stranger next to them, "I just don't understand. He couldn't just _die._ He was unbreakable!"

And the stranger with the ginger locks would say in a slightly familiar, deep voice, "Quite the contrary. Sherlock Holmes was very, _very _breakable. You just had to know who was closest to him." The stranger would then turn a way, a blue scarf hanging out of one pocket, only pausing once to look at the face of Sherlock Holmes that was painted on to the brick wall.


	6. Obbsession

**100 Days without You…**

…_To remember the 100 that was._

_(A/N: Another ficlet and the next chapter should be up soon. Sorry for not updating yesterday.)_

Challenge 6: Obsession

There was something beautiful in the frightful face of Sherlock. Moriarty wasn't quite sure what it was, but he suspected it was the fact that he had never seen that look on the detective's face. He had seen the same look on his victims, his mother, and _his _clients, but never had he seen it on the face of Sherlock Holmes.

Moriarty smiled. His obsessions were only for those who had never shown such a look of vulnerability, such as Sherlock. He desired—no, _needed—_to reveal that face on _everybody_. He _had_ to show it. It was humanity at its weakest; a sign that surely he was the strongest of them all! After all, Moriarty had never once seen the same look that Sherlock had now in the mirror.

Jim Moriarty rose the gun to his mouth in such a manner that Sherlock would know exactly what was about to happen. Moriarty looked at the detective once more.

The face was one of a man about to die.


	7. Eternity

**100 Days without You…**

…_To remember the 100 that was._

Challenge 7: Eternity

Take a breath.

Breathe out, but not quickly. Slow your nerves. Watch them.

_Them: _the people, walking down the street, stupid, blind, unobservant. They know nothing.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Keep calm.

Look around. Danger? _Not yet. _John? Unlikely. There is no one.

No one at all.

Blink. Smile and wave to the elderly woman. Danger? No. Know her? Yes. She was the woman who welcomed you into the apartment building. _No danger._

There! See that? _No._ Nothing. But perhaps it was... Perhaps—

_There! _

John? _Yes. _Check again. Was that John? _Yes. _What to do?

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Wait.


	8. Gateway

**100 Days without You…**

_…To remember the 100 that was._

Challenge 8: Gateway

It was a worn out building, most likely mid-nineteenth century, and Sherlock decided that he hated it. The architecture was a cheap imitation of Henry Hobson Richard's work. It had a gateway in the front yard, paint peeling off of the metal frames. The garden was nothing more than wilted flowers and chipped statues. It would have to do.

Sherlock sighed heavily, and slowly made his way from the street towards the abandoned building. He pressed one hand against the cool, metal gateway, looking at it with distain before making his way towards the home.

There was something wrong with the way in seemed to cast shadows on Sherlock's soul, as if predicting he would be the next to die. That wouldn't work out well, seeing as he was already dead. Sherlock laughed bitterly, kicking pebbles as he walked.

Once he reached the inside of the building, he paused to look around. Someone, probably homeless, had been living here before him. Trash piled up in the kitchen, and several tattered blankets layered the floor.

He kicked the away, heading towards a window. "Nice view," he said aloud, scorn almost visible in his words. The only thing one could see through the window was the giant metal gate, now slightly open, creaking in the wind.

Sherlock set down his bag on the floor and opened a packet of crackers. He still had enough money to rent residence at a hotel, but that would make him easy to spot. He recently had a bad meeting with some of Moriarty's men, and he had no intention of making the same mistakes.

He rested along a pasty green wall, eyeing a small frame across from him.

_Home is where the heart is_, it read.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and he tried to remember _so long ago, _when he was where his heart is.


	9. Death

**100 Days Without You…**

…_To remember the 100 that was._

_(A/n: Really short one-shot, but whatever.)_

Challenge 9: Death

Death was something Lestrade was use to. He was comfortable with finding bodies, because his job demanded that it be so. He was also well aware that people died regularly, and he should expect to find the gruesome thing know as death at every street corner he walked to. Because that's how it was.

The problem that Lestrade had with death was that it sometimes didn't _feel _right. Like, the person whose body is crumpled on the floor didn't _belong _there. Death was inevitable, but it seemed as if that person wasn't supposed to die then.

It was a strange feeling, but one Lestrade was use to, due to the fact that it showed up when a murder had taken place. He was known for this special kind of feeling, and he would often explain to Anderson, "Yeah, got that feeling again. Call Sherlock."

However, he could not always say this. He could not just tell someone that what they saw was murder, because where was his proof? Instead, he kept quiet until someone else, most often Sherlock, would find something that would peg it as murder.

This was one of those cases. He had no idea why the feeling was growing at the pit of his stomach, because it just wasn't possible! How could this have possibly been murder?

Sherlock Holmes had committed suicide.

There was no other way to look at it, no silly solution, no illusion; it just was.

The facts: Sherlock had ran when he was to be taken into custody, he took a "hostage" with him, known as John Watson, and he had also jumped off a building after calling John.

_But something wasn't right. _

Lestrade frowned. He picked up his phone and called John, sinking back into his office chair. He rubbed his temples while waiting for the ringing tone in his ear to end and for John to pick up.

"_Hello?"_ came a musky voice, and the sound of shifting papers filtered into the background.

"Hello, John!" He said, trying to sound less miserable than he was. "Yeah, this is Lestrade."

"_Yeah, I kinda gathered that."_

"Anyway, John, I need a favor. Do you still have, um," he paused, unsure of what to say. "Do you…remember anything about Sherlock on the day he died? Like, was he acting strange?"

There was a pause, and the sound of rustling papers stopped. John asked, _"What's all this about?"_

Lestrade sighed. "John, I know this isn't the best time. I know that you blame me for his death, but this is important. Something hasn't been sitting right with me ever since I heard the news. I'm not saying anything, 'though, I just want to know if he was acting any differently…"

There was a pregnant silence. Then, _"I don't think I can help you. He was just acting like…like, S-Sherlock…I've got to go. Goodbye, Greg."_

"Bye, John." The phone clicked shut, and Lestrade rubbed his hand over his weary eyes. He knew John hadn't been the best person to bring this up, but it was all he had at the moment.

Lestrade took a deep breath, and decided to contact Mrs. Hudson next. He picked up his phone and lazily scrolled through his contacts. He pressed next to Mrs. Hudson's name, and pulled the phone to his ear.

"_Yes?"_

Lestrade smiled, as if she was in the room next to him. "Hello, Mrs. Hudson! This is Greg Lestrade, from the police."

"_Oh, dear! Has John done something wrong?" _Mrs. Hudson sounded out of breath. _"I swear, those boys wil—or…boy, now I guess. I can't really say 'boys' anymore, can I?"\_

Lestrade frowned. What was the response to that? "Mrs. Hudson, I was wondering if you thought Sherlock was being a little bit strange on the day that he died?"

He heard a sigh over the phone. _"No, no…I don't recall anything. I'm sorry I can't be of any more help, but it's just so hard, you know? He's always had a bit of trouble with depression—you know about that, don't you?—but I never really thought…"_

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Hudson. I'm sorry to have bothered you."

"_You're not a bother, dear!"_

The two said their goodbyes, and Lestrade clicked his phone shut. He ran a mental list through his head. Who else could he ask? Sherlock didn't _actually _talk with all that many people, so that narrowed down his search. Sherlock wouldn't have said anything to Anderson or Donovan, so that left Molly Hooper.

Although it was unlikely, it was something.

He stood up slowly, making his way out of his office. Donovan, eyes slightly swollen, walked to him. She was carrying a stack of papers in one hand, the other swinging freely by her side. "Sir?" Lestrade spared a glance in her direction.

"Not now," Lestrade said gruffly, leaving her behind him. Others tried to approach him, but he waved them off. He quickly made his way to Molly's apartment, which was on the _East _side of London. He didn't have her phone number, and he knew she was taking a week off to grieve for her loss, and he figured that it probably be okay to drop by.

Molly opened her door as he approached. She had a small, bitter smile. "Saw you come up," she said, but Lestrade found hollowness in her words, as if someone else had seen him instead of her.

In fact, the only curtain he had seen flicker was upstairs, and he was sure she wouldn't have come down so fast.

Molly invited him inside. A cat zoomed past Lestrade's leg and towards a bedroom down the hallway, upstairs. "He doesn't like company," she explained. "Takes awhile for him to get use to somebody."

Lestrade made a sound like "oh" and found himself sitting on a rather nice couch. Molly sat across from him. "What can I help you with?"

What surprised him most was that the stuttering Molly he had grown to know was gone. Instead, she seemed confident and aware, unlike John, who now had a sort of cloud in his eye, like he wasn't all there. Molly was like the opposite of that.

"Um," Lestrade started. "I need to ask you something, and it's okay if don't want to answer, but I think this could be important."

Molly smiled, and Lestrade pressed on. "Something isn't right with Sherlock's suicide. Something just doesn't add up."

Molly's smile grew thinner, and a strange look settled onto her face. "Oh."

Lestrade pressed his lips together. "Yes. I just need to know if he was acting any differently that day. I think…I think that maybe it wasn't suicide, but maybe somebody had been up there with him."

That was the other thing. On the rooftop, they had found Sherlock's phone, pass code locked, and a few traces of blood. There was nothing else. Sherlock's examine had proved that all the blood that they collected was from the fall, and nothing before. Also, the blood types didn't match.

That meant that someone else had been on the roof with Sherlock. The blood was recent, so it didn't belong to a patient from long ago.

Molly didn't answer at first. "I think that…I think he was acting like Sherlock. I don't think that he would have let us see the emotional side of him if he was being threatened."

There was a pause, and Molly seemed to cringe. Lestrade's feeling increased within his stomach. "Molly," he said, carefully, "I said that someone might have been on the roof with him. I never said he was being threatened."

Molly's eyes widened for a second. "I-I meant—that you—I-I just t-thought t-t-that maybe you thought that someone was threatening him, because it makes sense, you know?"

Lestrade nodded, but was unconvinced. Molly Hooper knew something. "Sherlock was my friend. I know he didn't always see it that way, but he was a good friend. I just want to have some peace of mind, because I really think that something went wrong. I think that maybe, just _maybe, _Sherlock's name can be cleared."

"Oh…I…" She took a breath. "Sherlock…"

She pressed her lips together, afraid to say more. "Please, Molly," said Lestrade.

She hesitated. Then, something in her eyes lit up. She reached down into her pocket for her phone. "Sorry," she said. "Got a text." She read it, and then she looked at Lestrade wearily. "Okay," Molly said. "I'll tell you.

"It was just after he had gotten away from the people chasing him, I think. And… He came to me, and I…I had never seen him like that before. I think he was saying goodbye. He had tears, actual _tears, _in his eyes. He was so, so scared, Greg. He was…He was telling me that he thought he was going to die.

"I asked him what he needed, and he said, _'You.'_"

Lestrade's brow furrowed. He noticed the glossy look in Molly's eye, and he said, "Molly, what exactly are you saying?"

Molly's eyes hardened. "You can't tell anyone! Not even John! And you can't let anyone know that you know differently! Sherlock trusts you, so don't you dare go betray that."

She waited for Lestrade's nodded agreement before continuing. "That's when we did it," she said.

"Did what?"

"We planned. For tin minutes, we sat and planned. We planned how to fake his death. Sherlock knew that he had to die. He was never outsmarted. I'm not sure how he organized everything, but I knew my part. I was going to fake the reports.

"I don't even know if he's alive right now. All I know is that the body I got in the lab wasn't his. I hear from Sherlock every once in a while, 'cause he set up a camera up there—" she pointed to a small corner next to a bookcase—"and he sends texts every once in awhile."

Lestrade let the news sink in. He was still for a long time. He knew that the text she had gotten earlier was probably from Sherlock, who was watching their conversation. He also knew that Molly was still holding information, but he could deal with that.

Finally, he asked, "What next? What do we do?"

"Nothing."


	10. Opportunities

**100 Days without You…**

…_To remember the 100 that was._

_(A/n: This is another weird one, much like chapter seven. Sorry if you don't like it, but I'm enjoying writing small things like this.)_

Challenge 10: Opportunities

John opened his eyes to darkness.

_Sun's not up. Early morning._ Time? _Doesn't matter, does it?_

He padded across the room, yawning as he made his way towards the kitchen. Tea would be nice, because he doubted that he would actually go back to sleep.

_You should sleep. _

Don't want to. Sherlock never did.

_Sherlock didn't know everything. _

He doesn't want to think about it.

_You should sleep._

Why?

_You'll think more clearly. You should sleep, John._

Why?

_You'll be bored._

Why?

_You can dream of him. _

Why?

_You can rest, John._

Why?

_Maybe he'll be there when you wake. _


	11. Thirty-Three Percent

**100 Days without You…**

…_To remember the 100 that was._

_(A/n: Thanks for the feedback. Very short ficlet, because 100 words were not enough. Happy Halloween!_

_1: Edgar Allan Poe. That's all you need to know._

_2: Um, these aren't exactly my words, but are inspired by a wonderful _Supernatural _fic, so if you ever watched it, you might understand what the reference is.)_

Challenge 11: 33%

Sherlock had noticed in the few short moments before his fate was decided that life was truly amazing. Sure, he had always known that life was, in the grand scheme of things, rare, but he had never actually _looked_.

As a child, Sherlock had often played with dead things, because the anatomy was interesting, and he had always been interested in things that no longer breathed ever since he was trapped in a room for three days with his decaying mother1. He had taken life for granted.

He had thirteen seconds until he hit the ground. This was only thirty-three percent of the time he had originally thought he had.

Sherlock noticed the flying colors, a sign he was falling, and he tried to breath. It was almost impossible with the speed of his fall. He thought that maybe this is what it felt to the _real_ jumpers. Had they been had scared as he was now?

Sherlock noticed where he was supposed to land. It seemed very far away. _Thirty-three percent of survival, _Sherlock thought.

Ten seconds are left.

Sherlock remembers a tale. The tale had an old man who desperately wanted to fly. He kept trying and pushed himself off of buildings and cliffs. He never learned how to fly, but he learned how to fall, and _fall he did!__2_

Five seconds are left.

Sherlock braces himself; although the cushions in the back of the truck are there to help his fall, they will not break it.

Three seconds.

Sherlock breathes in. _Life, _he thinks, _is all I have left, and I may not even have it in—_

He crashes.


	12. Dead Wrong

**100 Days without You...  
**_...To remember the 100 that was._

_(A/n: Can't think...Ugh. I hate to make excuses, so I'm just going to apologize in advance for this chapter. But if it's good, forget I said this. Small ficlet, 'cause I'm too lazy to stick to the 100...)_

Challenge 12: Dead Wrong

Moriarty clipped the newspaper, cutting the main heading out and gluing it into his scrapbook. This was a very important thing, after all.

The clip hadn't gone into much detail, only delving into the ones Moriarty had planted, but it had covered the basic news of Sherlock's death, labled as: _Three Years Later: The _It hadn't said anything about Richard, so Jim thought he was in the clear.

Sherlock was dead, the police were _still _in pieces, he was alive, and Richard Brooks was nowhere to be found, so Moriarty counted it as a win.

But what could he do next? He thought about telling everyone the truth, and how Sherlock was right all along, because that would cause the police to blame themselves, and even more people would be guilty.

Yes, that would work. But maybe he'd let it sink in a while. "Nah," he said aloud. "It's already been three years."

And what a long three years it had been! Jim had spent two of those years in hiding, watching as his ring of criminals were taken down. He, at the time, was furious that Sherlock had lived, but had smiled when they finally taken him down in Arkansas, a state in the United States of America.

He had even been there, personally. It was quite fun to watch. Of course, Moriarty did have the doubt that maybe Sherlock faked his death again, but that was proved to be fickle.

Moriarty leaned back in his chair.

His next mission was to destroy everyone's life-again! Moriarty turned on the news, yawning as it got started. He fell asleep, resting his head on the side of his chair. He sighed, snuggling down. He could get to work tomorrow.

His calm state was interrupted when the shrill voice of a news reporter exclaimed, "This is just coming in! The famous Sherlock Holmes was seen alive by many witnesses! They report that he was talking with Inspector-Detective Greg Lestrade..." She paused. "It is said he was proving how he was innocent, and how-"

"_No!"_


	13. Running Away

**100 Days without You…**

_…To remember 100 that was._

Challenge 13: Running Away

Sherlock doesn't remember the first week of hiding. He suspects that there is a reason for that, because he has always been able to lock away the memories he didn't like. It had been a good tactic for when he was a child.

But as Sherlock continued to run, he thought about what he had locked away, but didn't dare open the locked doors in his mind palace.

He knows that nothing _really _terrible, otherwise the cellar in his palace would have grown larger.

Even so, Sherlock knows he cannot run forever, whether it's from Moriarty or himself.

_Keep running._


End file.
